


Something Comfortable

by sahiya



Category: White Collar
Genre: Concussions, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-23
Updated: 2011-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-21 16:45:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sara considers herself competent in any number of areas - including two forms of martial arts, three languages, and the circumvention of the most common high-end security systems - but she's never been good with vulnerability. In fact, one might say she's allergic to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Comfortable

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to via_ostiense for a fast and dirty beta and to fuzzyboo for telling me that no, really, I had to follow her advice.

_"Hi Sara, it's Peter. I'm calling on Neal's behalf to let you know he won't be able to make your date tonight. He got knocked on the head pretty good this afternoon during a takedown, and he probably won't be up and about for a few days. He's staying with us until it's safe for him to be on his own, but I'm sure he'll give you a call once he's back at June's."_

Of all the things Sara expected to hear when she checked her voicemails during a break in her usual spate of Monday afternoon meetings, that was . . . probably not as high on the list as it should have been. She'd known about the takedown this afternoon, at least in the broadest sense; Neal had mentioned it when they'd made plans for this evening, since it might've kept him at the office until later than usual. And God knew she was aware that Neal's job wasn't risk-free. But _until it's safe for him to be on his own_ sounded fairly serious. She was sure Peter had things well in hand, though, and it wasn't as though he'd asked for her help.

Wait. Why hadn't he asked for her help?

It was a question she kept worrying at through the rest of her meetings. True, she and Neal hadn't made any sort of commitment to each other; it was mostly dates in trendy little restaurants followed by some of the most creative sex Sara had ever had, with a side of stimulating conversation. Sometimes he made her lunch or breakfast and occasionally even dinner. It was the most fun she'd had in years, if she was honest with herself, but . . . yes, all right, Peter was probably justified in thinking she wouldn't come running if Neal was groggy and concussed.

Which begged the even more vexing question: Did she _want_ to come running?

On the one hand, while Sara considered herself competent in any number of areas - including two forms of martial arts, three languages, and the circumvention of the most common high-end security systems - when it came to this sort of thing, she was the first to admit that she was terrible at it. Vulnerability _annoyed_ her, and one of the things she liked about Neal was that he rarely showed her any vulnerability. Other women, Sara knew, yearned for such moments; she avoided them like the plague. A groggy, concussed Neal Caffrey would probably be disarmingly vulnerable. Sara had no idea what she'd do if faced with that.

Peter clearly knew what he was doing, Sara decided as she sorted papers to take home with her. He was the better choice for taking care of Neal; he'd known Neal longer and probably seen him in similar situations before. It would be easier for all involved. She'd call and see how he was doing, of course, but - well, Peter was right to assume what he had. They weren't to that point yet. They might very well never reach it at all.

There, she thought with satisfaction, as she pushed through the doors of the Sterling-Bosch building and strode out into the fall drizzle. Decision made.

Once home, Sara dropped her briefcase on the the table in her foyer, kicked off her shoes in her bedroom, and settled herself on the couch to call Neal. It rang three times before he finally answered, in a rough voice so unlike himself that she could hardly believe it was him. "Hello?"

"Hey, Neal, it's me," Sara said, frowning. "Peter left a message telling me what happened. How're you doing?"

"Not so great," Neal replied, his words slightly slurred. "Sorry about tonight. I'll make it up to you."

"Don't worry about it. I just wanted to see how you were. Do you need anything?"

"I'm okay. Peter'll take good care of me."

He sounded like talking was painful - or possibly it was just that everything was painful right now. Sara felt a twinge of sympathy and, unexpectedly, genuine worry. She suddenly wondered if the impulse to see for herself that he was all right might not be stronger than the impulse to avoid Neal Caffrey at his most vulnerable. "I'm sure he will. But you know," she added, hardly believing herself, "I seem to be free this evening all of the sudden, and if you wanted company . . ."

"You want to come over?" Neal said, sounding surprised through his bleariness. "Really? I'm probably gonna be really boring."

"I don't care," Sara said, and was surprised to realize it was the truth.

"If you're sure, then . . . yeah. That'd be really nice. Really nice. Oh, uh, Peter wants to talk to you. Hang on."

There were some momentary rustling noises that signaled the phone being passed over. Then Peter's voice said, "Hey, Sara."

"Hi, Peter. Is Neal all right? He sounded dreadful."

"More or less. He was out cold for a couple minutes at the scene, and now he's nauseated and groggy and he's got a pretty bad headache. The doctor at the ER said he'd be all right, but he shouldn't be on his own, so I brought him home with me."

"Good," Sara said, relieved. "I hope it's okay I invited myself over. If not, just say the word and -"

"No, no, it's fine," Peter said. "Neal almost cracked a smile when you offered. I just didn't think . . ." He stopped.

"You didn't think I'd want to."

"I didn't think you and Neal had that sort of relationship."

"Yes, well," Sara shook her head, "it's sort of news to me, too. I don't mean to step on your toes -"

"You're not stepping on any toes," Peter said quickly, though Sara suspected she sort of was, and perhaps in more ways than one. It actually wasn't the first time she'd had that feeling; she'd been putting off examining it too closely. "It's fine. I guess we'll see you in a bit, then."

"Probably it'll be about an hour," she said. She wanted to shower and change; a tailored power suit was probably not appropriate attire for visiting one's concussed lover, especially when the lover in question was as appearance-conscious as Neal was. In this case, the phrase _slip into something more comfortable_ wasn't a euphemism at all, more's the pity. "Should I bring anything?"

"Ginger ale, if it isn't too much trouble. I thought we had some here, but we don't, and his stomach's pretty rocky."

"Ginger ale, got it. See you soon, Peter."

Sara hung up. Well, this was not how she'd pictured her evening going. "Right," she muttered to herself. "Comfortable clothes. Ginger ale. I can do this. I can be," she paused, testing the shape of the syllables out in her mouth before saying them aloud, " _nurturing_."

Oh hell, who was she kidding. It was fortunate for both her and Neal that Peter would be there.

***

An hour later, Sara rang the Burkes' doorbell, plastic bag of ginger ale - and ginger tea for good measure - in hand. She was wearing jeans and a faded college sweatshirt, and she had her hair pulled back, though she'd drawn the line at taking off her make-up. There were things she would not do for Neal Caffrey, and going out in public without make-up on was one of them.

The door opened. "Hi, Peter -" she began.

"Thank God you're here, I have to go," he said, bringing her up short. "Diana called about twenty minutes ago, this case we thought we'd wrapped up just imploded. Neal's upstairs in the guest room," he added as he shrugged into his jacket. "I have him set up with a TV and a DVD player. See if you can get some food into him. He hasn't puked in a couple of hours, but try the ginger ale first, then maybe some crackers and soup, there're some in the cupboard. I hope I won't be too long, but if I'm more than a couple of hours, can you let Satchmo out into the backyard?"

"Um, sure," Sara said, taken aback. "Is Neal okay with this?" _Peter'll take good care of me_ , Neal had said, with complete faith.

"Think so," Peter said, grabbing his keys. "He knows how important this case is. I'll call in a couple hours and let you know how long I'll be. Thank you!" He rushed out the door, cell phone already in hand. Sara was left standing in the entryway, staring after him.

She gave herself exactly half a minute to panic before she took herself and the situation in hand. She was a magna cum laude graduate of Smith, she had a Master's degree from Yale, and she'd had guns pointed at her. She'd once had to fake her own death, in fact, so this? This was nothing.

She decided to start with the ginger ale, simply for the sake of something to do. It wasn't cold, so she separated one can from the six-pack, stuck the rest in the fridge, and cracked the can open before pouring it into a glass with ice. Then she considered the Burkes' liquor cabinet and the virtues of a stiff shot of bourbon. For herself, that was, not for Neal. She was fairly certain people with concussions weren't supposed to drink alcohol.

The Burkes' dog - what had Peter called him? Gizmo? - stared at her as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. "Don't judge me," she told him, but in the end, she went upstairs without any liquid courage.

She could hear the murmur of the TV from the guest room. She knocked, and the TV sounds ceased. "Yeah, come in," Neal said.

"Hey," Sara said, nudging the door open. "I come bearing ginger ale."

"My hero," Neal said, making a half-hearted attempt to shove himself up in bed. Sara set the glass down on the nightstand and pulled a pillow behind him. Peter hadn't been exaggerating when he said Neal looked like hell. Half his face was bruised and he had two black eyes. More startling still, though, was that the usual Caffrey charm was damped down to a mere spark. Sara wasn't sure she'd ever realized how _on_ he was around her until he was quite suddenly _off_.

"Do I want to know what the other guy looks like?" Sara asked with a smile, easing herself down on the opposite side of the bed and handing Neal his ginger ale. The covers were rumpled, she noticed, as though someone - Peter - had been sitting on them, and an extra pillow was shoved up against the headboard.

"There is no other guy. I got hit over the head with a gun and then knocked down a flight of stairs."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, it wasn't much fun, but as Peter has pointed out multiple times, it could have been worse - I could've broken my neck. The next couple of weeks aren't going to be pleasant, though." Neal leaned his head back, looking exhausted. "Thanks for coming. You really didn't have to."

"I know," Sara said. "But I wanted to."

Neal looked dubious. "Really?"

"So it seems," Sara said, a little wryly. She glanced over at the TV; it was frozen on a close-up of Matt Damon's face. "What are you watching?"

Neal grimaced. "I don't even know. Peter put it on." He looked down at his ginger ale and gave a woeful sigh. "I'm sorry - I had plans for us this evening."

"Well, I promise not to hold it against you," Sara said lightly. This won her a very small smile, though Neal was mostly still glaring at the glass of ginger ale like it had personally insulted his mother. "You're supposed to drink that, you know."

He winced. "I know, I just . . . I really don't think I can just now."

She was about to argue with him - it was ginger ale, after all, and would probably help calm his stomach - but he looked so miserable, she couldn't bring herself to do it even for his own good. "Okay," she said, taking the the glass from him and setting it aside on the bedside table. "It's here if you want it, just say the word." He nodded, vaguely. Sara bit her lip, glanced at the TV, and said, "You want to put the movie back on?"

"Sure," Neal said, sounding relieved. "Er, do you want -"

"Just scoot over a bit." She kicked her shoes off and pulled her legs onto the bed, scooting back until she was sitting against the pillow propped against the headboard. Then she pulled a pillow over onto her lap and patted it. "Come here."

He frowned in apparent confusion. "You really don't have -"

"Neal," Sara said firmly, "I want you to trust me to know I don't have to do anything I don't want to. If you'd rather not -"

"No, no," he said hastily, and lay down with his head on the pillow in her lap. She located the remote where it had gotten lost in the comforter and un-paused the film. One of the _Bourne Identity_ movies, she thought. Not her thing and probably not Neal's either, but Peter had probably thought he'd be the only one watching it. Neal sighed, relaxing against her, his head a comfortable weight in her lap.

She started to stroke his hair, realized that was probably a bad idea, and settled for running a hand up and down his back, scratching lightly with her nails. "Okay?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah," he said, in a voice already rough with sleep. Sara nodded to herself, and settled back to watch the movie. This was almost . . . nice, she thought. Peaceful. And there was undeniably something satisfying about being the one to look after Neal. It made her feel sort of warm and just a bit . . . fuzzy.

Christ, had she just thought that? Never again, she promised herself, and tried to refocus her attention on the movie. It was, on the whole, much safer.

At some point, she must have drifted off. She woke to a dark room and Neal shifting restlessly on her lap. "Mmm?" she managed, blearily glancing at the bedside clock. It was after eleven. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Is Peter back?"

"No, I -" Neal stopped, swallowed. "I don't feel so hot."

It was easy enough to figure out what that meant. A quick glance around told her that the only trashcan in the room was both wicker and unlined. _Brilliant._ "C'mon," she said. She swung her legs out of the bed and pulled Neal to his feet as well; he swayed, going white, and she barely kept him from going over. She kept him upright by sheer force of will, and steered them both out of the bedroom and into the hallway, where she promptly realized she had no earthly idea where the bathroom was.

Fortunately, Neal got hold of himself enough to stumble the last few feet. He shoved the door to the bathroom open, dropped to his knees, and was sick into the toilet. Sara turned the light on, which made him flinch and moan before he retched again, and then hung back, wincing as he dry heaved. After what felt like hours, but was probably only a minute or two, Neal slumped against the toilet, resting his head on his arm. "Please shoot me," he mumbled.

"Sorry, I left my gun at home," Sara replied. Neal made a noise that might've been a laugh or a groan. Sara poked around in the bathroom cupboards and finally came up with a washcloth. She ran it under the tap and draped it over the back of Neal's neck. "How are you doing?" she asked, resting a hand on his back.

"I've been better," Neal said, and let himself slump sideways so he was sitting, leaning against her legs. "Sorry," he added, looking up at her blearily. "Not what you signed up for, I know." He swallowed, grimacing. "Look, it's late and you have work tomorrow. I'm sure Peter will be home soon. I'll be all right until then."

Sara stood looking down at him. What was she supposed to say to that? she wondered. It was hardly to believe that only a couple hours ago, she'd been feeling fuzzy toward Neal Caffrey. At the moment, she wanted to hit him. Gently and, yet, repeatedly.

"I am not," she finally said, in a very even tone, "going to leave you on the bathroom floor. What sort of person do you take me for, Neal?"

He looked up at her. "I - um."

"I realize," she went on, in the same very steady voice, "that none of this situation is about me, so I've been trying really hard not to take it personally that Peter called and left me a voicemail message to let me know you were hurt, and that you were visibly surprised that I called to see how you were. I'm trying not to take it personally that you've told me three times so far that I don't have to be here and can leave if I want. And I'm trying not to take it personally that you apparently think I would _leave you on the bathroom floor_ with no way to call for help if you needed it. But the cumulative effect is quite insulting, so I wish you'd stop."

Neal was silent, leaning against her. After a moment, Sara knelt down and pulled him against her, her arm around his waist. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't think you'd . . . I wouldn't have blamed you, you know. I am glad you're here, I'm just a bit . . ." He swallowed. "The thing is, I'm almost used to Peter and El caring. Coming from anyone else, I don't really expect much."

"Oh." Sara blinked. And all along she'd been thinking it was _her_. And yes, all right, maybe it was, a bit - Peter had certainly been surprised that she'd wanted anything to do with this - but how much of it had been Neal thinking no one would care? And what had happened to him to make him think that? His past was still a black hole to her; where she was guarded, he was downright secretive. "Well, get used to it."

"Should I?" Neal asked, frowning up at her.

"So it seems," she said, wryly. "Against all better judgment, I assure you." She turned her head and kissed him just over his eyebrow. "Do you think you can stand?"

"Yeah," Neal said, and let her help him to his feet so he he could rinse his mouth out with Scope. He leaned on her during the slow shuffle back to the bedroom, but not as heavily as before, and he accepted the ginger ale easily enough once she got him tucked in.

"Would you mind calling Peter?" Neal asked. "I thought he'd be home by now."

"Sure," Sara said, brushing hair back out of Neal's face even as she quashed a twinge of something that was certainly not jealousy toward Peter Burke. She settled on the bed beside Neal and pulled out her cell phone to call Peter.

"Oh God, Sara," Peter said by way of greeting. "I thought for sure I'd be home by now. I - damn, okay, I can be out of here in fifteen minutes and home in forty-five, I'm -"

"Peter," Sara said firmly, "it's okay."

"- so sorry, I completely lost track of - er." Peter pulled up short. "Really?"

Sara rolled her eyes. "Why is everyone so surprised by this? Never mind," she added, when Neal looked up at her and raised his eyebrows, "I don't think I want to know. Do what you need to, Neal and I are fine here."

"Did he eat anything?"

"No. Ginger ale is enough of an achievement tonight."

"Ah," Peter said. "Well, I should be home . . . sometime. If I can get this wrapped up, I'll take tomorrow off."

"I can go in late if you want to sleep in."

"Are you -"

"Yes," Sara said, with barely controlled patience, "I'm sure."

There was a brief silence on Peter's end. "Thank you," he said at last. "I appreciate it."

"No problem. Do you want to talk to Neal?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Sara handed the phone over to Neal and then eased herself out from underneath him. She padded downstairs to lock up and let the dog out into the backyard. It'd rained all day and there was a bite in the air that spoke of winter on its way. Despite the chill, she stood in the doorway, staring out into the backyard.

It was almost possible to pretend that this was her life, rather than just a fluke of circumstance: a house in Brooklyn with a yard and a mortgage, a dog that had to be walked, Neal waiting in their bed for her. Sara had never thought she'd want that sort of domesticity, but - well, she'd certainly surprised everyone else tonight. She thought she might yet surprise herself.

She climbed the stairs quietly and paused just outside the bedroom door to eavesdrop shamelessly. Curiosity had always been a weakness of hers, though it'd yet to get her killed.

". . . doing okay," Neal was saying. "She didn't even bat an eye when I threw up in front of her." He paused and then he said, sounding as though he'd said it before, more than once, "It's okay, Peter, really. I'm not upset." There was another pause and then Neal huffed out a laugh, "Fine, all right, I'm a little upset, are you happy now? . . . Good, because I'm going to sleep. Get a cab if you're too tired to drive. . . . G'night, Peter." Sara heard the faint sound of her cellphone being placed on the nightstand, and then Neal cleared his throat. "You can come in now, instead of lurking in the hallway."

Sara nudged the door open and refused to be sheepish when she smiled. "Did you give me a good report?"

"Yeah," Neal said, sliding down under the covers. He pulled up one corner in invitation. "Maybe a little too good. I think Peter was disappointed to hear we were getting on so well without him."

"Hmm," Sara said, stepping out of her jeans. "You and Peter have an unusual relationship, you know."

"Yeah," Neal sighed, "I do. Do we have to talk about it now?"

"No," she said, sliding into bed beside him, "not now." She turned off the light and rolled onto her side so that his back was to her front, her arm draped across him. "I don't have to wake you every hour or anything, do I?"

"No, they don't do that anymore," Neal said, grasping her hand in his. "I'll be okay. G'night, Repo."

Sara smiled. "Good night, Neal."

 _Fin._


End file.
